


Corinthe

by elentari7



Category: Firefly, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A post-rebellion Enjolras, Alternate Universe - Firefly Setting, Episode: s01e01 Serenity, Episode: s01e08 Out of Gas, F/M, Firefly Quotes, Flashbacks, Gen, M/M, Multi, brick references, minor character cameos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-07-12 19:57:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7120312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elentari7/pseuds/elentari7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crew of a certain Firefly takes on a few passengers, and several surprises along with them.</p><p>Or, a reimagining of the beginning of <em>Firefly</em>, if the titular ship were crewed by Les Amis de l'ABC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) [facecasts!](https://www.mediafire.com/folder/f9jhydvy8dc3a/firefly_au_facecasts)  
> 2) The Mandarin was taken from a website on cursing in Firefly; I have no knowledge of Mandarin, so please forgive me if the characters say something completely out of place (I promise it was an accident) or just aren't very correct (not my fault :))  
> 3) I apologise for my inability to write dialogue in the appropriate dialect/accent. Throwing apostrophes at everything just felt uncomfortably fake. A significant chunk of said dialogue is lifted directly from the show and I still couldn't make it sound right :/ but I did try.

The Eavesdown docks spent most of Persephone’s summer baking to dust, and today was no exception. The dust was usually kept packed down harder than rock by the boots, wheels, and tires of buyers, sellers, travelers, and pickpockets; today was unexceptional in that respect as well. It was all a familiar sight to the man who stood leaning against the extended strut of a battered-looking old Firefly, looking out at the milling crowds. Familiarity didn’t make it any more enjoyable, though. It was hard to enjoy being stuck out under the cloudless, merciless sky, theoretically courting potential passengers, but mostly just baking along with the dust.

This was _supposed_ to be Courf’s job, he was the best on the ship for public relations, but he'd wheedled Bossuet into covering for him. Bossuet just hoped he wasn’t still covering when the captain got back.

It was probably best, though, that Bossuet was stuck there. He couldn’t do or incur much damage standing in one spot, except maybe sunburn. (He scratched his balding pate, gleaming with sweat and sun.) He’d already managed to lose the market trolley when he and Joly had gone out for supplies. Joly had decided to do the rest of the shopping by himself.

At least the trolley had been empty, so they hadn’t lost anything valuable. And Bossuet, having grabbed the wrong handle and not noticed until a few minutes later, had gotten a nice fancy leather trunk in exchange. It even had its owner’s name embossed on it. (Somewhere, there was a Marius Pontmercy bemoaning the loss of his luggage and wondering what on earth to do with an empty trolley; Bossuet felt a bit bad for him.) Of course, the trunk was locked and the owner had the key, so Bossuet couldn’t get into its nice fancy contents. Just his luck.

Bossuet scratched his head again, then checked his pocketwatch. He’d only been out here for five minutes. Everything felt like it took ages under this stultifying sun.

Such was Bossuet’s heat-induced ennui that he almost missed his market trolley trundling past him, trailing behind a miserable-looking youth in an expensive-looking coat.

“Hey!” he cried, shaking himself out of his stupor. “Hey, Marius Pontmercy!” It was indeed the suitcase’s owner; he turned in surprise. His expression only got more puzzled when he ascertained that he did not in fact know Bossuet. Bossuet crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got something of mine.”

“I’m...sorry?” The boy looked more confused than ever, and more than a little wary. He also sounded like he hadn’t spoken in a month and needed a moment to remember how.

Bossuet pointed. “That thing you’re dragging around. You picked it up in the market. It’s mine.”

The moment Marius Pontmercy put the pieces together was visible on his face. “Oh, I’m _really_ sorry,” he babbled, “I only turned around for a moment, I thought it was mine, and I didn’t realize until--”

“So this’ll be yours, then,” Bossuet interrupted, bright and grinning. Marius tripped over his words at the sudden change of direction. “Trade you?”

“All...right…” Marius hesitated before handing over Bossuet’s trolley, not even waiting to inspect the trunk first. The boy was lucky it had been Bossuet who’d gotten hold of his belongings, if Bossuet said so himself; not everyone could be relied on not to scam him when he made it _so easy_. “Yes, this is mine!”

“Excellent. Usually my luck’s much worse than this. Though,” Bossuet contemplated the trunk he’d just handed over, “I _am_ losing a very nice leather suitcase, so maybe this still counts.”

Marius clutched the handle of his trunk tighter.

“I’m Lesgle,” Bossuet continued, “and I’m supposed to be convincing people like you to pay us to take you somewhere, but that takes effort and it’s too hot for that. You can call me Bossuet.”

“Um,” Marius said.

 ---

_Bossuet had thought he was just along for the ride when Joly decided to venture beyond the insulation of hospitals, into the wider ‘verse where people needed and didn’t have a doctor. But Joly hadn’t been the one to get lost in the port and run into a bouncing ball of extroversion who introduced himself as Courfeyrac and asked, “Where in the ’verse are you headed, then?”_

_“Me? I’m just lost. Happens a lot.” Bossuet was used to it; his main concern was upsetting Joly, which was unfairly easy to do outside of a medical emergency. “I’m looking for my partner. We’re catching a ship out together--if we can find one we can afford.” Courfeyrac did not pester, but wished him luck finding his partner, and left after sweeping a bow and calling “Think of_ Corinthe _when you find ’em. We will gladly take your money.”_

_Bossuet did not find Joly, nor Joly Bossuet; instead, Bossuet had eventually been tapped on the shoulder by a dark-haired stranger and asked if he was by any chance looking for a tall, skinny, very worried doctor who had a habit of wringing his hands and pacing when his partner disappeared on him. Bossuet liked the man instantly._

_All three of them ended up strolling by_ Corinthe _at Bossuet’s suggestion, chatting like old friends by the time they reached it. Joly had hugged their new acquaintance (who was taken completely off-guard, but that was Joly for you) and asked if he didn’t intend to get off-planet as well. Since he did, and could pay_ Corinthe _’s rates, all three of them ended up on board. After meeting Joly (of course), this was some of the best luck Bossuet had had in his life. He’d found them a ride; Joly had found them a companion._

_He was pretty sure none of them had expected to stay aboard indefinitely, even if they hadn’t had a specific destination in mind. But within the first three weeks the crew’s muscle, Bahorel, had gotten his leg gashed open in a fight, and Joly insisted on staying until his patient was fully healed. The scar had faded, and their fare stretched into six months, and no one had seen any reason to complain._

_Not about Joly or Bossuet, at any rate._

 ---

There turned out not to be much of value in the suitcase, if its owner was to be believed. “My income hasn’t been exactly steady since my grandfather and I fell out,” Marius admitted, fiddling with his coat sleeve. The garment’s snazzy appearance gave way, upon closer inspection, to one of too much wear and tear and fraying. “I can’t live where I’ve been living anymore, I just can’t, but I can’t afford the fares for any of these ships, and I’ve already cleared out of my old rooms so at this rate I’m going to be sleeping on the street tonight.”

Bossuet grinned. A melodramatic streak--oh, Courfeyrac would like this one.

As if on cue, Courfeyrac came skipping down the ramp and slid to a halt at Bossuet’s side. “Did you say you needed a place to sleep?” he asked Marius. “‘Cause I can offer you one of those. Along with a ride out of this system.”

Marius Pontmercy blinked. He was not accustomed to being confronted with two such enthusiastically cheerful people in one day. “I was just saying,” he began, apologetic, “I can’t pay…not for the whole trip, anyway.”

“You can’t sleep on the street either,” Courfeyrac pointed out. He looked Marius and his nice suitcase up and down with a critical eye. “No, trust me, kid, you can’t. It would not end well.”

“Rude,” Bossuet interjected, a look of profound amusement on his face.

“Shut it. Come along, Pontmercy.”

Courfeyrac was something of a whirlwind. He hadn’t grown up on a world that had dust devils, but had heartily approved of the comparison when it was explained to him (complete with a suggestive wink). One couldn’t not go along with whatever his latest harebrained idea was, especially if one had no previous exposure and were taken by surprise. Marius Pontmercy fit both of these criteria. Courfeyrac took off into the belly of the ship, and Marius, waved ahead by a chuckling Bossuet, helpless to do anything else (even if he’d had anything in mind), scrambled to catch up with him. “You’re sure this is no trouble?”

“No trouble at all." Courfeyrac waved a careless hand. “I mean, Enjolras might take some convincing, but it’s not like we don’t have a bed you can sleep in.” He winked.

Marius didn’t know who Enjolras was, but his new friend didn’t seem to think it important. The prospect of a real bed was absorbing far more of his attention. “Thank you,” he said, remembering his manners, “for letting me sleep with you.”

Courfeyrac choked on air.

 ---

 _Courfeyrac had been the first to join the crew of_ Corinthe _after Enjolras and Combeferre bought the ship. He did not do it because they happened to need a pilot and he happened to be out of work, though they were and he was. He did not join because he was a browncoat looking for like-minded company after the end of the Unification War, though that wasn’t untrue. He didn't join out of resentment of the Alliance crushing the Independents, though he wasn't keen on complying with unification. He joined because he made Combeferre smile like Enjolras hadn't seen him do since Serenity._

_And he joined because Enjolras could not cow him, any more than their defeat by the Alliance had. However icy the captain became at times, however distant and lost in memories the first mate could get in the early days, Courfeyrac could not be convinced to treat them any other way than cheerfully. In spite of never having met the men they were before the war, in spite of never sharing the personal experience of combat that had changed them, he seemed to have known them all their lives. He slotted right in as if they’d always needed him._

_Looking back on the empty year between the end of the war and the purchase of_ Corinthe _, perhaps they had._

_The paid work and the sticking it to the Alliance were nice bonuses, of course._

_And so the crew of two became a crew of three. It would have been perfect if they’d had someone to get the creaky old scrap heap that was their ship fit to leave the ground._

 ---

Some ways away from _Corinthe_ , a trio of men wove their way through the sprawl of the docks and the accompanying crowd, walking with purpose. One didn’t ever want to stand out when on the job. Looking like they knew where they were going kept people from bothering them much more effectively than skulking would.

There was also the fact that all three of them were constitutionally incapable of skulking. The one on the right could blend into a background surprisingly well, if he so chose, but there was something about him too dignified to skulk. The one in the middle, without even trying, drew the eye--too purposeful, too severe, too magnetic not to--and even now he strode ahead of his companions, who made way for him as if by instinct. The man on the left just looked perpetually ready for a fight, but that was his job.

All three men were also over six feet tall. Sneaking wasn’t really an option.

They were good at their jobs, though, and used to this routine, and the only kind of attention they’d attracted by the time they reached their destination was the fleeting notice of those who would have liked to stroke the leader’s jawline. The man on the right could have told them it would be far more trouble than it was worth. The man on the left would have watched them try and broken out the popcorn.

Their destination was an alleyway blocked by a man nearly too broad to fit in it. He was the first of three suspiciously squinting goons the trio had to pass to reach their client’s office at the end of the alley; the final one poked his head in the door to announce “captain Enjolras ’n his guys” before letting them in. Their client, a weedy, formally- but raggedly-dressed man with a smile nearly as greasy as his hair, greeted them from where he was perched on his desk.

“Late,” he said in a sing-song voice. The man on the right restrained himself from rolling his eyes. The man on the left restrained himself from cracking his knuckles.

Enjolras’ voice, in contrast, was smooth and hard as glass when he responded, “Liar.”

“Excuse me?” The other man’s brow beetled in a frown.

“We landed more than an hour ahead of schedule, with your cargo intact, and you know it. Why’re you trying to put us on the defensive?”

He was capable of subtlety, but he much preferred, and was much more effective at, cutting straight to the point.

The weedy man fumbled a little in the face of this unshakeableness before replying. “You are _later_ ,” he said, “than you should be. Meaning you arrived after this.” He held up a flashing bulletin whose scrolling letters warned readers to keep an eye out for an unidentified vessel, classification Firefly, spotted fleeing the scene of an illegal salvage. “Which complicates business for me more’n a little, wouldn’t you say?”

“Unidentified,” Enjolras pointed out. “There’s nothing to lead back to you.”

“Except maybe government stamps on every bar of food in those crates.”

The man to Enjolras’ right shot him a razor-sharp glance, but the captain himself remained as impassive as though carved from stone. “Crates _you_ sent us after. Pay for what you ordered, Jondrette.”

Jondrette quailed ever so slightly. It was difficult not to when Enjolras locked eyes with you. But with a glance around at his thugs, the man recovered, retreating behind his desk. “Sorry, but no,” he said, and reclined in his chair. He gave Enjolras an oily smirk. “You’re no army officer anymore, captain, can’t expect people to obey your orders.”

Enjolras went the kind of still that meant danger. Anyone who knew who he was knew he had certain buttons; not everyone knew how unwise it was to press them. The man at his right spoke up before he could open his mouth. “No one’s giving anyone orders. We have a deal.”

Enjolras took the hint and shut up, but Jondrette was enjoying himself now. He _had_ always liked feeling cleverer than he was. “Oh, but it’s been compromised, hasn’t it, Mr. Combeferre?”

“Not on our end.” Combeferre’s voice and gaze were both level, simultaneously steely and soothing. It was a useful habit for moments like this when Enjolras didn’t look like he could produce a single soothing word. Most moments were like that with Enjolras, actually.

“Your captain’s just been giving me instructions, when I’m the one who hired him,” Jondrette countered. “That’s rather backwards. Naughty of him.”

“Insult him again, you 笨天生的一堆肉,” the man at Enjolras’ left growled. He looked readier for a fight than ever, cracking a grim gleeful grin when Jondrette’s thugs unholstered their weapons.

“We are not,” Combeferre said, louder now--one of these days Bahorel was going to get all of them _killed_ \--“here to fight.”

“You can still sell these goods.” Enjolras pinned his eyes on Jondrette again, as good as knives for the purpose, but the other man avoided them this time.

“Maybe, but I don’t need to,” he said, glaring at Bahorel and Enjolras in turn. “Not if I don’t feel like getting too close to an Alliance mess, or browncoats who like to put on airs of superiority.” He drew out every syllable in _superiority_ , enjoying the sound of it. His expression turned greasily self-satisfied again. “You’ll just have to try someplace where folks are more desperate, this time. Or that superiority’ll dry up real quick when the Alliance somehow tracks you here.”

Combeferre nodded as Bahorel growled again and Enjolras’ eyes blazed. “We’ll keep that in mind for future dealings,” he said smoothly, and thanked whatever was watching that Enjolras again took the hint, turned on his heel, and headed for the door.

Jondrette waved away Combeferre’s parting shot as he and Bahorel followed their captain. “I’ll call you when I need you, boys.”

Combeferre had to grab Bahorel’s arm and shove Enjolras out the door.

They were silent until they emerged from the alleyway, back under the oppressive sun of a Persephone summer. “That,” Combeferre sighed, “was unnecessarily hostile.”

 ---

_Combeferre had been there before the ship, and was on the ship because he’d followed his captain to it. It hadn’t been so long since Enjolras had been his sergeant, then._

_Enjolras could probably have been a commissioned officer, especially with his prestigious educational and financial background, but he’d insisted on working his way through the enlisted ranks, fighting on the ground. People who looked at Enjolras and saw nothing but a pretty-boy made Combeferre want to laugh, and cry, and shoot them in the knee._

_Those people hadn’t been there during the war, and they certainly hadn’t been there after Serenity Valley. Combeferre had been the only one around to keep his commanding officer--his friend--alive for that entire year. The concern hadn't been Enjolras dying, really--if he’d been meant to die, he’d been meant to die in battle, they both knew it, and the chances for that were past. It was a question of Enjolras hardly existing anymore, without the purpose he had so blazingly believed in. People who looked at Enjolras and saw a harsh, terrible, emotionless creature made Combeferre want to weep, because they had never seen him before that awful year. Everyone had been hit hard by Serenity. No one was hit as hard as Enjolras._

_More than once, Enjolras had asked Combeferre what he was still doing here. He could be doing things with his life; he could be studying, or teaching, he could be helping people. And--though he was a little ashamed to admit it--Combeferre could have done it. He was capable of going on with life, with reshaping his purpose. But his sergeant wasn’t. So he stayed._

_When Enjolras, then, had led him into_ Corinthe _’s dingy cargo bay for the first time, and Combeferre had seen the rats’ nests and exposed wires and rusted-through parts, and Enjolras had met his eyes and asked him so seriously what he thought, he didn’t need to be told that none of the things he saw were important. None of the parts of the ship were important. They added up to a chance at one last freedom to fight for--their own._

_So Combeferre had stayed._

 ---

Bahorel did not agree that he’d overreacted to Jondrette. “Unnecessarily hostile? Us?” he complained as they made their winding way back toward the ship. “Most times, you’re the first one to start looking murderous around the eyes when people badmouth the war in front of the captain--”

“Not when there’s a payoff at stake, and for god’s sake keep your voice down.”

“He had us steal _food_ ,” Enjolras fumed. “Something people _need,_ and then he just refuses to distribute it, what was even the purpose--”

“This is Jondrette,” Combeferre pointed out, glancing around for police presence before continuing, “that was never the purpose. At least now we can sell straight to the people who need it.”

This agreed with Enjolras, even if it didn’t pacify him, but Bahorel just heaved a mournful sigh. “Yeah, them as can’t pay us, so _we_ starve instead.”

“There’re people who can afford our price.”

“Hucheloup?” Enjolras thought aloud, brow furrowed.

Combeferre shook his head. “He’s dead, Enjolras.”

“What?”

“Last month. His widow’s been trying to keep up the business, but she’s had to scale back some. Too much for a take this big, I think. What about R’s friend--ah, Boissy?”

“Oh, you mean the one who _shot me_?” Bahorel grumbled, rubbing at the neat scar on his arm left by a bullet graze and Joly’s expert ministrations thereto. So many of R’s “friends” had little patience with R, and itchy trigger fingers.

“Jeanne?” Enjolras offered instead, only to be met with another shake of the head.

“Town was hit by Reavers,” Combeferre said softly. Bahorel let out a heavy _whoosh_ of breath, and Enjolras closed his eyes.

There was a few paces’ worth of silence. “We could,” Combeferre suggested, “try Musichetta. She’s been getting more and more pieces of that moon to come together for her, she might have the means by now.”

Enjolras nodded. “We’ll run it by Courfeyrac.” He then narrowed his eyes in the direction of the now-visible ship. A stranger was anxiously hovering by the mule and the single enormous crate balanced on its bed, while the ship’s mechanic--ignoring, with the air of long practice, Bossuet’s “helpful directions”--maneuvered the vehicle and its precarious load up the ramp. “...But first I’m asking him what he’s got us into this time.”

“Something that pays, hopefully. We’ll need it if Chetta can’t come through.” Bahorel looked cheered by the thought of a payoff for their hard criminal work. “Though it’ll be good to see her again, anyway.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll tell J&B to break out the leather pants.”

\---

_Bahorel had been an accident._

_Said accident was Courfeyrac’s fault, as neither his captain nor his first mate nor his mechanic were much inclined to hanging out in bars for fun. None of them were much inclined to flirt outrageously (or at all) with women, either, and so weren’t liable to try to pick up the wrong one. Whichever woman Bahorel happened to be with at the time was definitely the wrong one._

_Not being the type to get into fistfights, Courfeyrac had managed to escape an awkward situation and just run for it, but his captain was immensely displeased with him when the large and hulking offended party tracked them down in the middle of their job. The fact that he was alone and outnumbered only seemed to increase the man’s enjoyment. When asked by Combeferre how he expected to make a living hopping around the galaxy (and threatening people) all on his own, he’d shrugged and said he liked his freedom. Enjolras had gotten that particular gleam in his eye and said, “So do we.”_

_There were a few negotiations, and an obligatory few minutes of being put in a headlock for Courfeyrac, and then there was a new member of the crew._

_Bahorel was useful to have around on a boatful of individuals who deeply disliked having to hurt people, but he did have to be dissuaded on occasion. When advised to show something resembling restraint, he’d scoffed, “Where’s the fun in that?” Lack of injury to all parties involved had not proved a sufficient motivator. Neither had docked pay. (He spent his portion of earnings extravagantly and without an apparent care in the world.)_

_Enjolras’ statement that inability to follow orders when it counted meant he didn’t belong on the ship seemed to work pretty well, though._

 ---

Courfeyrac had done well with the latest crop of passengers. At least, he had snagged three of them, one of whom looked pretty well-off. She was dressed in neat and simple, but fine and expensive, traveling clothes and had introduced herself as Euphrasie Fauchelevent, and it was clear as daylight that she’d never traveled alone in her life. The other young passenger, whom Courfeyrac seemed to have adopted, couldn’t stop sneaking unsubtle glances at her. The third passenger was a bit more in the ordinary vein--solid, solitary, itinerant, looking for work in greener pastures. All three made visible attempts to quash reactions to the news that they were detouring to Whitefall.

“What kind of medical supplies did you say you need to drop off?” asked the older man, in the same grave tone he seemed to use for everything. He kept his narrowed eyes fixed steadily on the captain.

“The Alliance gave us instructions,” Enjolras said smoothly, face a mask. “I didn’t ask for details.”

Joly perked up in his seat at the table. “Plasma and insulin and antibiotics are some basic possibilities, since Whitefall doesn’t have any known specialized health problems, unless there’s--”

“There’s always something there ain’t enough of out on the border,” the man leaning against the counter said, quelling the doctor’s stream of chatter. Bossuet shot him a look of gratitude as he patted his partner’s shoulder.

The young woman--girl, really--nodded, almost to herself. “Of course, it’s important.”

Courfeyrac’s pet Pontmercy leapt at the comment like a puppy at its owner when they walked in the door. “Yes! It’s good, if the supplies are needed.” The girl looked up at him, and smiled the not-quite-coy smile of a pretty person who hadn’t yet figured out the full effect they had on others. The boy became unable to say another word.

“We surely can’t object to helping people in need,” Enjolras agreed, pulling everyone’s attention back to himself again without having to raise his voice. He wasn’t lying, either; Combeferre, if no one else, heard the shift in his voice from talking about something (like the Alliance) he would rather didn’t exist to talking about something (like the downtrodden) he cared about. “Now, if you want anything out of your luggage, Combeferre and Bahorel will take you down to get it before dinner.”

“And if you need anything else, just ask,” Courfeyrac called out, as everyone shuffled toward the exit. “Well, don’t ask Bossuet, he’ll try his best, but something’ll probably still go wrong.”

Bossuet flipped Courfeyrac off under the table before standing to leave with Joly. “Living proof of Murphy’s Law, that’s me.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Joly scoffed, his tone belied by his arm curled around Bossuet’s waist. “You don’t get ill half so often as I do.”

“You are almost never ill, Jolllly,” Bossuet said, patient the way only a person who had made and lost the same argument many times, and by now just found it endearing, could be.

At a glance from Enjolras, the man leaning against the counter stayed put, as did Courfeyrac. The three men waited for the clatter of footsteps and the echoes of Joly and Bossuet’s banter to fade before their captain turned to their pilot.

“We’re on course for Whitefall,” the latter confirmed.

“You sent the message?”

“Haven’t heard back yet, but there’s time.”

“Good.”

“Bet Pontmercy’s glad for the detour,” Courfeyrac mused, slinging his feet up onto the table. At Enjolras’ nonplussed blink, he added, “More time to get to know Ms. Fauchelevent, y’know.”

The man leaning against the counter crossed his arms. “You ever gonna get tired of matchmaking the passengers? Complete strangers?”

“Marius isn’t a stranger!” Courfeyrac’s feet slid to the floor with an indignant thud. “We’ve bonded. And you should’ve seen his face when she first walked by the ship! His eyes were about to pop out of his head.”

The man raised both eyebrows. “You signed her on _just so_ you could matchmake complete strangers.”

“You didn’t see it, Feuilly, I couldn’t _not._ Plus, I mean, money.”

“What,” Enjolras asked, with what might have been incredulity if it hadn’t felt so resigned, “made you think this was a good idea?”

Courfeyrac shrugged as he stood and skipped off toward the bridge. “You were unavailable for comment, I used my judgment.”

Feuilly snorted. “God help us.”

Enjolras shot him a look that spoke to extensive shared experience of the results of Courfeyrac’s judgment.

Then, “Will we make it?” he asked.

“To Whitefall, easy,” the other man answered. “To Boros, sure. The fuel we’ve got might hold us ’til the next planet over, if we don’t do anything too strenuous.”

“This is not that kind of job.”

“But we do have to replace that compression coil at some point,” Feuilly went on. Not many could get away with talking over the captain like that, except perhaps Combeferre, who wouldn’t have done it. To Feuilly, Enjolras merely bowed his head and listened. “Fancy flying or not, I can’t guarantee how much longer it’ll hold up.”

Enjolras nodded. “I don’t know if this payoff’ll cover both fuel and a coil, but...as soon as we can.”

“’Long as it’s before this one busts,” Feuilly said with a shrug. “’Cause if it does, we’re drifting.”

“Best that it doesn’t, then.” Enjolras gave him another nod and a rare, genuine smile. “I have faith in you.”

\---

_Feuilly, as Enjolras maintained, was the most important person on the crew because he kept their hold on freedom up and running. He worked with the ship like it talked to him, and he’d taught himself the language without any help. He’d picked it up because of the war--he had been ferociously determined to support the Independents somehow, and there were always things that needed fixing. It hadn’t been the first job he’d had to pick up as he went along._

_It hadn’t been any use, in the end, and fluency in the language of engines hadn’t been much of a consolation for quashed independence._

Corinthe _was special, though. She’d clicked with him the moment he got a look at her inner workings. Of course, part of that may have been how her current mechanic had been mistreating her--just in little ways, little useless ways that you didn’t really need to know about or fix but would all add up to a happier-running ship if you just_ bothered _to take care of them. And when you had a fully-functioning Firefly on your hands, why wouldn’t you take care of it?_

_Those had been the first words Feuilly had said to Enjolras--after he, delivering an order of used engine parts to the grounded ship, witnessed the latter telling off his mechanic for stranding them on this rock. None of the parts they’d bought from Feuilly’s boss turned out to be necessary; the easiest fix actually involved removing a part, which was probably why the mechanic hadn’t thought of it. Enjolras had given the man one minute (he’d timed it) to explain why he should keep his job, and, not persuaded by the reply, sent him packing with his bundle of useless parts. Feuilly had only left the ship long enough to pack one bag and officially quit his old job._

_It was a bit of a weird adjustment, living on_ Corinthe _, given the close existing dynamic between his three crewmates; but Feuilly’d always integrated quickly. He’d always had to. And he had something going for him in this new setting that he usually didn’t: respect._

 _He wasn’t actually certain how much of that came from how well he treated_ Corinthe _\--which Courfeyrac especially appreciated--how much of it came from his self-education--which Combeferre, the most educated person Feuilly’d ever met, deeply admired--and how much of it came from the first time he ranted about the Alliance and assimilation and the proud identity of his tiny home moon. Enjolras’ gratification at that had been a little bit frightening._

 ---

The cargo bay’s high ceiling rang with the noise of five pairs of feet on its metal-grate floor. Voices and the clatter of dropped belongings bounced around the space as well. Combeferre would have helped pick up the passengers’ wayward possessions, but the only one who was accepting help was the young lady, and Bahorel had that covered. So the first mate just oversaw. The elder, grizzled passenger eyed Ms. Fauchelevent sorting through her luggage as though affronted by anyone having more than one bag--not that she had many, the real curiosity was the large grey crate she’d had wheeled aboard, and she wasn’t even glancing at that. Courfeyrac’s new young friend, on the other hand, watched her as though wishing he were helping her in Bahorel’s place. It was an impractical wish, given the overflowing armful of his own possessions he was fumbling with, dropping something every few seconds. Not to mention his inability to take a single step in her direction.

In the bustle, it took several minutes for anyone to notice the atrociously dressed young man who emerged from the starboard shuttle and stood at the edge of the catwalk above them, quiet and content to watch.

“Behold, the ambassador has returned!” Bahorel bellowed, the second the newcomer was spotted. “Get your ass down here and say hi, ambassador.”

The young man leaning against the upper railing was pale, and blushed easily. Bahorel’s shouting (or maybe it was the attention it drew to him from every side) made his face turn bright pink. He covered his face with his hands even as he laughed, but Bahorel would not be denied. “C'mon, didn't you miss us?”

“Bahorel,” Combeferre interjected in a voice that didn’t have to be raised much to get attention. “You were in the middle of something?”

Bahorel threw his hands up in surrender, and turned back to juggling Ms. Fauchelevent’s bags while she (seeming more charmed, bless her, than intimidated by his looming...Bahorelness) extracted her personal effects. The young man, still pink in the face, descended the stairs.

He gave Combeferre a soft smile. “Hey, you.”

“Hey, you.” Combeferre smiled back. “Sorry about the welcome committee.”

“It could have been worse,” the newcomer replied, philosophical as ever. “It could have been Courfeyrac.”

Combeferre was not the kind of person who laughed often, but he had a certain crinkle-eyed smile that those who knew him recognized as deep amusement. “If it’s any consolation, Courf can’t conduct any lewd interrogations over dinner with new passengers around.”

A sigh. “Will that stop him?”

“I’ve been training him to make us seem respectable for years,” Combeferre deadpanned. “He forgets his manners, I’ll squirt water at him.”

“Prouvaire!” Joly’s head poked out into the cargo bay from the entrance to the infirmary. “You’re back!”

“Good trip?” Bossuet called, coming up behind Joly and slinging his arms around his waist, while Combeferre and Prouvaire made their way across the bay to join them.

“Very.” Prouvaire’s face lit up at the question. “My last client tried to give me a very generous bonus--he started talking while I was giving him a massage and he had so much to say, and he went on until he was exhausted so I let him just sleep through the night.”

“Tried to give a bonus.” Bossuet raised an eyebrow. “As in, didn’t succeed?”

“I couldn’t charge extra for that! He needed it.”

“So will you be needing a checkup?” Joly interjected, ever most solicitous when it was least needed. Combeferre knew for a fact that even if his Guild weren’t scrupulous about keeping its members healthy, Jehan Prouvaire would never, ever put a client at risk. Besides, as Prouvaire himself asserted, romantic wasting diseases had gone out of fashion centuries ago.

The man in question smiled. “I’ll be fine, Joly. No injuries for you to deal with on this last run?”

“Not even me,” Bossuet said with pride. “Though now that I’ve said that, it’s only a matter of time.”

“We’ll need to find a new buyer,” Combeferre put in quietly, mindful of the passengers just beyond the open door. When Jehan, who hadn’t yet been filled in, looked to him with concern, he added, “but we’ve got the new fares to tide us over, and no one’s been hurt.”

“That,” the Companion said, linking arms with Combeferre, “is the important thing.”

\---

_Six months after taking on Bahorel it was decided that a secondary source of income, however small, was necessary. Courfeyrac swore it was because Bahorel ate for three._

_Jean Prouvaire showed up to inspect the premises in impeccable makeup and silk robes which made several jaws drop (Enjolras was not amused). He waved away the caveat that they would often be far from high Core society, took one look at the dust-laden and cobwebbed shuttle, and declared that he loved it. He didn’t even try to haggle them down, saying with a mischievous smile that he was sure the money was going to a good cause (Enjolras was highly pleased)._

_After that first meeting with the captain, the crew never saw Prouvaire dress well again. Tasteful clothes were for business, he said. He preferred comfort in the home. So they got used to silk scarves paired with overlarge knit sweaters, and fluffy bathrobes that were somehow simultaneously polka-dotted and plaid, because in spite of only paying rent on a single shuttle, Prouvaire considered the whole ship his home. He curled up in the copilot’s chair to talk about women (and men) with Courfeyrac; he read in the mess with Combeferre for hours at a time; he sat in on Bahorel’s workouts (and even accepted a self-defense lesson once--Bahorel had made the mistake of going easy on him and had come away with multiple bruises). In exchange his shuttle--now dust-free and incense-heavy and deeply plush--was open to all, for tea or a chat or just a soft couch to sit on, as long as no one minded the risk of walking in on him naked._

_He confessed to Combeferre, once, curled up beside him on his couch sipping tea, that he’d been nowhere near so comfortable on his last ship. “They were landlords, not friends. I couldn’t wear this,” plucking at his patchwork shirt, “around them. It was like working all the time.” He shot his friend a smile. “I certainly never told them to call me Jehan.” Combeferre had asked if he really enjoyed a job that so frequently required him to be someone else. Jehan had snorted--he had an impressive repertoire of incongruously indelicate sounds--and said “I_ am _myself with a client. The version that helps them most.”_

_He was very earnest on that point. He loved his job, and loved each of his clients--if not in the same way some of them thought they loved him._

_No one on board could claim to understand Prouvaire, exactly, but it had been a year and he was still with them._

 ---

The mess table was not built to seat eleven, but by dint of cramming in mismatched chairs they’d managed it. Bossuet had gotten the one with the wobbly leg, which they didn’t normally use for that reason. Before picking up his chopsticks, he’d said an exaggerated prayer begging for the chair not to collapse before he could finish the first fresh vegetables he’d seen in a month.

“I’d save some for you,” Joly protested loyally.

“And then worry you’d had too little and gotten scurvy for...how long?” Bossuet asked through a mouthful of tomato.

He nearly choked on said mouthful when he whipped his head around toward the thudding of footsteps on the stairs, and then in the hall. The passengers straightened in alarm, but Joly perked up, thumping his partner on the back, and Bahorel stood to rummage under the counter for another chair. A sleep-rough voice came from the doorway: “What’d I miss?”

“Persephone,” Courfeyrac supplied, smirking.

The newcomer groaned, clutching at his heart with one hand, running the other through his already-wild hair. “I missed _fresh air_.”

“Not that fresh,” Bossuet assured him.

“Where’ve you been?” Combeferre asked, because Enjolras wasn’t going to.

The man shrugged one shoulder. “Sleeping.”

Joly clucked his tongue as the man took hold of one side of the rusty folding chair Bahorel was struggling with and tried to help open it. “Feeling better?”

“Good as--oof--ever,” he answered, throwing his weight against the chair. Bahorel threw his weight in the opposite direction. It only took a few seconds for the chair to creak, shrill and grating, in protest and then snap open. “Thanks, man.” Bahorel thumped him on the back so hard he collapsed into the chair. Courfeyrac applauded.

“How empty exactly am I gonna find my stash?” Feuilly sighed over the squealing of the chair legs against the floor. (Joly had grabbed ahold of the newcomer’s arm and was scooting him, complete with chair, into the too-small space at his side.)

The man raised a solemn hand. “I did not touch your engine-brewed poison, I swear. That’s more’n my life’s worth.”

Feuilly snorted. “Since when’re you a lightweight?”

“I didn’t mean the _booze_. I meant touching it without your permission.” The man caught the full plate Bossuet nearly dropped in his lap without looking up. He did, though, do a startled double-take at the glass of water Joly shoved into his hand. He heaved a theatrical sigh at the expectant doctor, but hid a tiny, secret smile behind the glass as he drained it.

“So,” he boomed, after dropping the empty cup back on the table, “how’s business?” He waved a hand toward the three new passengers, who were still staring at him with varying degrees of uncertainty. “It’s ok,” he told them. “I’m paying them for my bunk, so I’m business too.”

“If you’re going to keep referring to people at this table as not human, you can leave,” Enjolras informed him.

“Is it some great insult, being not human?” He gave the captain a crooked-toothed grin. Enjolras’ only response was an unsurprised, unimpressed look of flat disdain.

Joly elbowed his friend. “You could start with _introductions_ , R.”

“Boring.” The man sighed and looked over at the passengers. The Fauchelevent girl was smiling now, though the older man was still frowning. Pontmercy just looked confused. “I’m Grantaire. But you can also use R, if you’re feeling clever, or just general insults. I can usually assume those refer to me.”

“Well, I’m Euphrasie,” the girl replied, “and in response to your business question, I’m quite well.”

She dimpled at him while he laughed. “I like you,” he said. “You can stay.”

She laughed in return, and then tilted her head toward Marius. There was a shy question, at odds with her cheekiness toward Grantaire, in her gaze. The boy hastily swallowed his mouthful of food. “Marius,” he squeaked.

Euphrasie’s smile glowed.

“Javert,” the older man said shortly, and went back to cutting up his dinner.

“Lovely. Happy now?” Grantaire asked Joly, who chuckled. Bossuet reached behind him to flick Grantaire in the ear. Grantaire ducked him with the ease of habit. “Has no one got any more interesting business to report?” Combeferre shot him a warning look down the table--there were law-abiding citizens in the room, for goodness’ sake. Grantaire didn’t acknowledge the look at all, but he did turn his question on Prouvaire instead. “Not even you? No good stories this time around?”

Combeferre sighed into his drink. Courfeyrac raised his hands. "I didn’t say it this time."

“It doesn’t matter how many times you ask; a Companion,” Prouvaire intoned primly, “does not kiss and tell.”

“You told us about--” Bossuet began, before Joly jabbed an elbow into his ribs.

Prouvaire sighed. “And was there any kissing involved?”

“A Companion?” The Fauchelevent girl blinked at Prouvaire across the table.

“Will that be a problem?” Enjolras had a very effective trick of addressing a group while making each individual feel like he was staring directly at them. Most of the crew were convinced it wasn’t even voluntary--it just came out whenever he meant business.

Euphrasie blushed. Marius seemed unable to tell whether he found this or Prouvaire’s profession more distracting. “No, no, of course,” she hastened to say. “I’ve just never…you don’t...” She stopped. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Nor I you,” Prouvaire replied. “That’s one of the best parts of this job, the people you meet. Those you least expect can be the most important.” He gave her a genuinely sweet smile, then cut his gaze toward Marius and back. She blushed even deeper.

“It _is_ unexpected,” Javert put in, “to meet a person of your stature in a place like this.” His slight gesture took in the entire ship and crew. His disapproving glance took in Prouvaire’s outfit.

Prouvaire’s smile grew sharp. “As I said. I like the people.”

“We ruffians are a nice break from all the glamor,” Grantaire agreed, louder than was warranted even to cover the awkwardness. “Wild specimens in their natural habitat, after a life spent indoors. And then for variety’s sake you get the occasional tame ones, a lark or mouse or wolfhound thrown in.” He smirked at each passenger as he named them.

“Again, if acknowledging humanity’s going to be a problem for you--” Enjolras said, looking almost as affronted as Javert.

“Would it help if I acknowledged myself as a toad?” Joly poked his friend, pouting, but Grantaire paid him (and the continued warning glances from Combeferre) no mind. “What would that make you? Something with wings. Hmmm, too pretty for an eagle. Too scary for a dove. Swan? Those’re pretty and scary.”

“Or,” Enjolras cut in with finality, “not a bird, or any other animal, any more than you’re an amphibian. However much you insist on wallowing in the mud.”

He went back to eating in the ensuing pause. Everybody quickly followed suit, except Grantaire; he chuckled, more to himself than anyone else. “Maybe you’d be carved from stone.”

 ---

 _Grantaire and Enjolras had been loudly disagreeing with each other--or rather, Grantaire had; Enjolras had just been dismissive and disapproving--from the beginning. During his first dinnertime conversation aboard_ Corinthe, _Grantaire had snorted at his own mention of the Independents, saying he could’ve told them it wasn’t worth it. He’d smirked when Enjolras took steely offense. “How old were you during the war? What’d you see?” Enjolras, perpetually half a decade older than he looked, had fought through the whole war and seen everything, and Combeferre had had to say so when he didn’t speak. “And you haven’t given up faith in humanity?” had been the response. “You may be the stubbornest son of a bitch in the worlds.”_

_In this insistent pessimism, Grantaire gave the impression of a horse who’d gotten a rock stuck in its hoof at some point in the past and had been trudging around with it ever since--for so long, in fact, that it’d forgotten how and when the pain began, or even that a rock was to blame. It disliked rocks, sure; but, having given up on the one in its hoof ever getting dislodged, it seemed to have lost faith in anything else improving, either. It just continued to trudge, its limp habitual and its ears perpetually laid back, exuding an aura of general disgust._

_This metaphor would have made Grantaire laugh and ask what rancher worth his salt wouldn’t have just removed the rock, or, if it were too much trouble to try and save the worthless creature, shot him. Neither had happened to him yet._ This _, he would have said with a grand gesture,_ is why I don’t believe in God.

_(That was one thing he and Enjolras agreed on, if for different reasons.)_

_The metaphor did also work, though, in the sense that Grantaire was a herd animal. He gravitated toward gatherings of his own kind, unable, however much he despaired of or was mistreated by them, to really live without them. And when he found companions that by some miracle didn’t disgust him, and by some greater miracle weren’t disgusted by him...well, then his loyalty and eagerness to entertain were perhaps better compared to a dog’s._

_Joly and Bossuet, though as unlike him in outlook as could be, had made the crew of_ Corinthe _this group for him. He had come aboard with them six months ago, meeting them perhaps the happiest accident of his life; and, ostensibly because of them, he’d never left._

 _There was at least one person on the ship he would follow to the ends of the ’verse even before Joly or Bossuet, though. That had become clear, if not from the first disagreement, then from the shocked, shockingly genuine awe and admiration that spurred recurring attempts at provocation. (Sometimes Grantaire was less a horse than a horsefly, buzzing and buzzing and biting at sore spots and refusing to shut up or go away.) Everyone saw it; everyone knew why Grantaire would never leave_ Corinthe.

_Everyone except, perhaps, Enjolras._

_\---_

Enjolras, as a rule, disliked not knowing things about the people on his boat. People had a right to privacy, of course. To independence. He would uphold that on his ship, if he couldn’t do it anywhere else, until the day he died. But when people _hid_ things that affected him, or his work, or his crew--that was just frustrating. So he was less than pleased when Courfeyrac, pet passenger in tow, cornered him in the aft corridor after dinner.

“What do you mean,” he said to Courfeyrac, voice flat as a frozen pond, “he can’t pay?”

“I mean he hasn’t got enough money to cover the whole trip and not be bankrupt when he gets to Boros,” Courfeyrac answered, unaffected, “apparently ’cause his granddad is a 狒狒的屁眼. So I gave him a discount.”

Enjolras frequently felt Courfeyrac understood him better than anyone, except perhaps Combeferre, but sometimes he couldn’t fathom the mind of his pilot at all. He knew what kind of work they did, and he picked up a stray. Not that this boy seemed much of a threat, or capable of deceit, but one never knew. “Without telling me.”

Courfeyrac threw his hands in the air. “It was that or let him sleep on the docks! Come on, it’s one trip. Marius is a good guy, right Marius?” He nudged his new friend, who looked startled to be addressed in this conversation that was all about him. “He is. I can tell.”

There were times Courfeyrac thanked god for his natural immunity to Enjolras’ disapproval, and this was one of them. Enjolras couldn’t stay offended by an act of kindness, anyway; he just had to hold on to exasperation about not being informed. He’d give up soon enough. Marius, though, had no such resistance, and was trembling more than a whole treeful of aspen leaves before a storm.

Before Enjolras could give any assurances that no one was going out the airlock, for goodness’ sake, calm down, a tangle of voices echoed up the stairs. Enjolras would know his crew’s voices anywhere--he could pick out Joly’s confused anxiety, rising in pitch, Bahorel’s rumbling curiosity, Feuilly’s attempts to be heard. His eyes snapped to Courfeyrac’s; the other man was also on alert. “What’s going on?” Everyone ought to have scattered to their individual recreation by now.

Courfeyrac shrugged, but hardly had time to open his mouth before Feuilly’s exasperated voice echoed over the comm. “Enjolras, could you get down here, please?”

He ran into Combeferre and Prouvaire on the next level as they emerged from the latter’s shuttle, Prouvaire still holding his teacup, Courfeyrac and Marius tumbling down the stairs in Enjolras’ wake. “You know what this is about?” His first mate shook his head, and fell into step beside him.

A glance into the cargo bay revealed the source of the noise, which was still bubbling, and which Feuilly was still trying to quell: every other person on the ship seemed to be there. Enjolras sped up.

“I believe,” he said, once he was halfway down the stairs--and at once the chatter subsided--“I made it clear this was a crew-only space?”

“I’m sorry.” The Fauchelevent girl stepped forward from where she had been standing against her big grey crate. Javert made way for the new arrivals in the crowded bay, edging behind the girl like he thought she might try to run from the consequences of her infraction. “I forgot something in my luggage.”

Enjolras was automatically suspicious. He was not eager, at this precise moment, for another revelation about a passenger not being what they seemed. Then again, Ms. Fauchelevent was to all appearances a sheltered rich girl. She could have just thought it harmless to bend one rule in the name of convenience. “As I’ve said, you can ask any one of us if you need something,” he began, and the rest of the instructions he’d given only a few hours before were on the tip of his tongue, but they fell away at once when he saw that the girl had placed herself between him and…

“We’ve got a stowaway,” Feuilly supplied. The figure pressed into the gap between Euphrasie’s crate and a tied-down storage rack--human in outline, feline in its coiled tension--did not hunch or hide under the attention. It coiled tighter, bristling, hands forming fists.

“She was just coming out from behind there when I was coming in,” Ms. Fauchelevent explained, “and then everyone else saw her...I’m sorry,” she said to the other girl, clearly repeating herself. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Enjolras scrutinized the stowaway, who met his gaze with shoulders thrown back in defiance. She seemed vaguely familiar, but not enough that he could place her. It was Courfeyrac who recognized her. “You’re Jondrette’s girl!”

“Éponine?” Marius said, eyes round and wide as dinner plates. The girl’s eyes darted to him.

Enjolras scowled. Jondrette was a coward; he hadn’t expected the rat to pull something like this. “We don’t want anything to do with your father--”

Her eyes flitted back to Enjolras. “He’s not my father,” she snapped.

“Hey!” Enjolras (and most everyone else in the bay) whirled to face the indignant new voice. “That’s my line.”

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac grabbed the barrel of his gun (how many _times_ did he have to be told not to do that?) and pushed it down. “Don’t point weapons at _kids_!”

“Who’re you calling a kid, mister?” The urchin boy plopped himself down on top of the pile of crates behind which he’d been hidden. “I can handle myself better’n you, I bet.”

“I bet you can,” Bahorel rumbled in amusement, his own weapon already holstered again. The urchin regarded the hulking man, who was almost at eye level with him on top of the crates, with interest. The evil grins he and Bahorel exchanged were eerily similar.

“You didn’t get caught,” Courfeyrac said approvingly. “So definitely points for that.”

“Why,” Enjolras cut in, before his crew could lose _all_ semblance of adulthood, “are you on my ship.”

He looked back and forth between the siblings. Éponine’s eyes darted to Marius again. “Anywhere’s better than there. I didn’t know Gav _followed_ me.”

Everyone’s heads swiveled back to Gav, who shrugged. “Looked fun.”

This time his and Courfeyrac’s smiles were practically mirror images.

Grantaire was the first to start laughing, and refused to stop however much Enjolras glared at him. “Oh come on, you _can’t_ grudge me this. I’d pay money for this kind of entertainment. This is better than an opera.”

Éponine bristled again at that--Enjolras was struck by the very vivid image of a cat about to pounce--but Combeferre stepped in. His ability to calm a room was getting a lot of exercise today. “Don’t take him seriously. It’s a lesson well learned when you stay on this ship.” He turned to lock eyes with Enjolras. “We can’t turn away people we can help.”

Well, when he put it that way. “Of course not.”

“Don’t take offense,” Feuilly spoke up from the back, addressing the siblings, neither of whom seemed to appreciate Combeferre’s characterization of them. “They mean well.”

“Welcome aboard, then,” Bossuet put in, while Joly's fingers twitched on the clasps of his black doctor's bag. The stowaways didn’t exactly look the picture of health. "Want a tour?"

“This can wait,” Combeferre said firmly, before everyone could start talking at once again, ”until we find everybody a place to sleep.”

“First,” Enjolras said, voice flinty, “is there anything else I should know about the people on my ship?”

There was a moment of chastened silence. Even Courfeyrac had the grace to look apologetic. It would have been too much to hope for to get a negative reply, but of all the things the crew might have been expecting, none of the possibilities included Javert pulling out a badge and saying “Yes. You are carrying a wanted fugitive, captain. Please drop your weapon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slides under the midnight wire* Happy Barricade Day-ish! I did not actually mean to write this for any particular date, but I've been sitting on it for a while and I thought I might as well...and posted it exactly as the clock changed from 11:59 to 12:00. Ah, well.
> 
> NOTES:
> 
> \- Re: facecasts, I attempted to cast more Chinese people given, y'know, the premise of Firefly; I ended up w/ 2.5 Koreans, 4 Filipinos, 1 Thai, 1 Taiwanese, and 0.5 Chinese...which I guess is still more probable in this universe than the show’s actual cast?  
> \- I haven’t got a solid idea of what Enjolras and Combeferre named their ship after, except that it must have been personally important to them during the war. I just know it’s a place name, and that you never use the definite article with it, like Serenity (and for that matter like Corinthe the wine shop). It’s not like this ’verse is lacking for planets with Greek names, or even French ones, so...it’s out there somewhere. :)  
> \- 笨天生的一堆肉 (BUN tyen-shung duh ee-DWAY-RO) = [stupid inbred stack of meat](http://www.therobotsvoice.com/2010/11/fireflys_15_best_uses_of_chinese_profanity.php). I thought Bahorel would enjoy this one.  
> \- Jeanne is Charles Jeanne, whom some people call real-life Enjolras; he was heavily involved in the June Rebellion (like E) and actually a member of the working class whose rebellion it was (unlike E). He and his companions fought their way out of their barricade and were sheltered by Parisians, but he eventually got caught, went to trial, made some very passionate speeches, and was executed. I honestly feel a little bad relegating him to the role of Reaver victim. Dude was badass.  
> \- I was working at my equestrian team’s horse show the day I wrote Grantaire’s intro. Does it show?  
> \- 狒狒的屁眼 (FAY-FAY duh PEE-yen) = [baboon’s asshole](http://www.therobotsvoice.com/2010/11/fireflys_15_best_uses_of_chinese_profanity.php/3). <3 Courfeyrac.  
> \- I considered giving Joly his own intro scene, but he and Bossuet are basically one, I couldn’t figure out how to separate them. And Enjolras’ is coming up--probably with its own overwrought metaphor--assuming I ever write chapter 2. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, the last little bit of this chapter got cut off when I first posted it >.< It's complete now!

At first, everything seemed to stop.

Grantaire was visibly frozen on the edge of laughter, because this was just too ridiculous. The Jondrette girl--Éponine--was stock-still against the shelves. Bahorel, by instinct, had a hand on his weapon, but was caught between drawing it and trying to play the gesture off as innocuous. Everyone wore an expression somewhere between utter confusion and shock.

Éponine’s little brother was the one to break the moment. “Oh hey, it’s you!” He laughed, incongruously carefree. “Is that what you’ve been hanging around town for all these weeks? Man, I could have told you guys he was a fed.”

“If you hadn’t been hiding in our cargo?” Courfeyrac pointed out, trying for but not quite succeeding at the same level of nonchalance.

Javert just gestured calmly to Enjolras’ gun, still in his hand, though pointing at the floor. “Captain, if you please.”

“Do you have any compelling arguments as to why I should act _less_ suspicious of someone who’s just announced they’re a spy?” Enjolras shot back, not moving. “On top of accusing me of something I’ve no knowledge of.”

“Secrecy and sudden changes of itinerary do nothing to convince me of your innocence,” Javert stated, and narrowed his eyes at Enjolras’ weapon. “Nor do displays of hostility toward the law. Feel free to shoot me if you care to bring the Alliance down on you. This ship will be hunted when I fail to follow up on my report.”

From behind, Combeferre could see Enjolras’ shoulders tense. He couldn’t imagine the expression on his captain’s face as he holstered his gun, but Javert seemed unmoved.

“Thank you,” he said, and turned to--of all people--Ms. Fauchelevent, and drew his own gun.

Then a lot of things happened at once.

“What--” Marius gasped.

“You?” Courfeyrac boggled.

Euphrasie was white-faced, but did a valiant job of ignoring the weapon trained on her. “What have I done, officer?”

“Step away from the crate. You are bound by law to stand down and hand over the smuggled--”

“Or what?” Prouvaire stepped forward suddenly, pale face flushed. “You’ll _shoot_ her?”

Bahorel mirrored the Companion’s step forward, but then Combeferre’s hand was on his chest. “‘ _Stand down_ ,’” the larger man huffed, “she’s not even armed!”

“I will handle this,” the girl said, ridiculously.

“No.” Marius didn’t even seem to have heard her. His wide eyes were fixed on Javert and his gun. “You can’t.”

Javert only cocked his pistol when the boy dove in front of Ms. Fauchelevent. Prouvaire nearly exploded. “Stop that.” He stalked across the bay. The average human ought to have been at least shocked, most likely terrified, of Prouvaire without his composure, but Javert was stone-faced. “This is excessive, officer, put that--”

“Prouvaire, stop,” Enjolras said. He was ignored.

“--away and stop threatening innocent--”

“Jehan.” Combeferre’s tone was urgent. But Prouvaire had shouldered Bossuet aside and reached Javert in a flash and now he had his hand on the fed’s gun, for god’s sake--

“Dammit, Prouvaire!” Bahorel crossed the bay in three strides and grabbed the Companion by the waist. He turned away, and Prouvaire dragged Javert’s gun arm with him before being yanked out of reach. “Get away from--”

A shot rang out, and Bahorel stumbled, releasing Prouvaire, and everything seemed to stop again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bahorel swore, looking down at the deep graze the bullet had scored along his side.

“Ow,” Prouvaire agreed, even fainter than usual, looking down at the blood spreading across his ill-fitting striped sweater from his stomach.

Then he collapsed, and again, a lot of things happened at once.

“Jehan!” Combeferre shouted.

There was a _thud_ as Bahorel lurched toward Javert but doubled over and hit the ground. There was a _thwack_ as Javert’s gun flew from his grip anyway, smacking against Ms. Fauchelevent’s crate--Grantaire suddenly behind him, twisting his arm and forcing him to his knees. He kicked the gun as far from them as it would go.

Joly was on his knees at Prouvaire’s side, both hands applying pressure to the wound and already covered in blood. “Prouvaire, I need you to focus on me.” His voice was dead serious and steady as it never was, except with a patient. “Look at me. Tell me if you can move your feet.”

“Jehan. Jehan, can you hear us?” Combeferre knelt at his other side, trying not to clutch at his friend’s hand hard enough to cut off circulation.

“You _are_ being awfully loud,” Prouvaire murmured, dazed eyes wandering in search of the person who’d spoken.

Joly glanced up. “Bossuet, tranq.” His partner scrambled off in the direction of the infirmary.

“Will he make it.” Enjolras’ tone was too flat for it to be a question; he was nearly as bloodless as Ms. Fauchelevent, who was frozen halfway to Prouvaire, hands over her mouth.

“We have to act fast,” Joly said, which wasn’t an answer.

Gav whistled from his vantage point atop the crates. “I’ve never seen _that_ much blood.”

Enjolras glared at him. Courfeyrac just laughed shakily. “Me neither, kid.”

“Courfeyrac.” Enjolras had to shake his pilot’s shoulder to wrench his gaze away from Joly’s reddened hands. “ _Courfeyrac_. Get to the bridge, _now_.”

“No fucking w--”

“Get to the bridge and find out what the fed’s reported. When. How much.”

He stared Courfeyrac down until the other man nodded, relaxing just the tiniest bit. “Right. Right. We need to know...”

“Get it done.” Enjolras turned back to Joly, who was pressing a tranq injector against Prouvaire’s neck. Feuilly was already bracing to lift Prouvaire’s feet while Combeferre got his upper body. Enjolras looked away again. “Get down from there,” he snapped at Gav, who saluted before obeying.

It took Enjolras a second to locate Bahorel on the other side of the bay. “We,” he informed Euphrasie--and Marius, who had an arm around her, and Éponine, who hovered behind the pair--as he passed, ”are going to talk.”

He didn’t have time for any of them at the moment, though. Grantaire was still standing over the fed, one heel digging into Javert’s hand, one hand keeping the man’s head shoved down. Bahorel was standing over him too, blood dripping between the fingers pressed to his side, snarling in his friend’s face. “Let. Me. At him.”

“Don’t,” Grantaire said, low and urgent, “do something you’ll regret.”

“I am _not_ gonna regret this.”

“Bahorel.” The muscles of the man’s neck and shoulders bunched at the sound of his captain’s voice. “Search him and restrain him in one of the passenger bunks--not his own. Nothing more.”

Bahorel was terrifying by job description, whether he wore a gleeful grin or angry glare; but Enjolras had a couple inches on him in height, and had never had to glare to win a staring contest. Within moments Bahorel’s shoulders slumped.

He knelt to begin patting Javert down, and Grantaire’s hand moved to the spot on Javert’s neck where a good well-angled jab would knock him out. Why Grantaire would know how to do that effectively was beyond either of his companions--but then, so was how he’d disarmed and restrained a man in seconds. Everyone was just full of surprises today.

Enjolras restrained Grantaire by the wrist for a moment. He looked down at Javert, whose face gave away nothing. He was more terrifying than Bahorel’s most towering rage.

“If he doesn’t make it,” he stated, not needing to indicate the small crowd maneuvering an unconscious Prouvaire through the infirmary doors, “neither will you.”

He turned on his heel and left the cargo bay.

 ---

_Enjolras had been young for the job when he became the captain of his own ship, but only in years. He’d always seemed older than his age. Frustratingly, he’d also always looked younger than he was--unless you looked him in the eyes, where his conviction, when he actually was young, had burned like suns. That light had long since been fused down to its iron core, and it had been as implosive as any supernova; but what remained still burned, less visible yet more tightly focused than ever._

_People who hadn’t known him before Serenity had no way of knowing all this, of course. They just knew not to fuck with him._

_He’d lost a lot with the defeat of the Independents--faith that result would answer to effort, any tolerance for God, purpose in life--but he retained quite a few of the essentials. The conviction that people deserved better than the Alliance gave them, whether they would stand up and take it for themselves or not. The knowledge that the terrible could and did happen in the name of the good. The desire to_ take _freedom, for whomever he could, in whatever little ways he could. The willingness to suffer whatever consequences necessary._

 _He was not willing, however, for those around him to suffer. He thanked Combeferre, and his relentless presence even after the war, for that every day. He wasn’t sure what would have happened if he’d struck out on his own, but it would probably have been insurgent, outrageously dangerous, and more likely to end in death than success. Instead, he had...friends. Real living people to care about. His ship, and so his freedom and his life, was all bound up with Combeferre's philosophy, Feuilly's determination, Courfeyrac's dash, Bahorel's wicked grin, Jean Prouvaire's melancholic smile, Joly's science, Bossuet's sarcasms, and Grantaire’s...well, it was best to ignore Grantaire most of the time, but even Enjolras could see he loved_ Corinthe _as much as any of them. It hadn’t been Enjolras’ intention when he purchased the ship, but his crew had grown to encompass every person who’d stuck with her; and, adrift as they all were, they’d made a family of each other. He didn’t have to like them all equally, or know them all as thoroughly as he did Combeferre, for that to be true._

_People who weren’t close to him had no way of knowing exactly how bad an idea it was to fuck with his crew._

 ---

Nobody spoke.

Bossuet sat crammed into the corner of the seating area farthest from the infirmary door, arms wrapped tightly around himself, carefully not touching anything. He couldn’t bring himself to leave, but he never risked keeping himself and his bad luck too close to Joly during a surgery. Inside the infirmary Enjolras and Feuilly stood at attention by Prouvaire’s side, gloved hands holding Joly’s tools ready. Combeferre had assisted at first, but Enjolras, uncharacteristically gentle, had taken the scalpel from his hands, which had been uncharacteristically shaky, and he’d retreated to the doorway. He wouldn’t go farther. Courfeyrac was still up on the bridge, and Grantaire was nowhere to be seen. Most everybody else stood in silence, scattered about the common area, staring at anything but the infirmary. The exceptions were Éponine’s little brother, who had his face pressed to the infirmary window, and Bahorel, who in spite of the shallow graze reddening the gauze he held to his ribs wouldn’t stop pacing.

“Bahorel,” Enjolras said without looking up, “take the kid and go up to the bridge, check on Courfeyrac’s progress.” His low murmur felt deafening in the tense silence, and Bahorel flinched at it. Both he and the kid in question opened their mouths to protest. “ _Now_.”

Enjolras did look up this time, briefly. The kid slid down from his perch at the window.

“Okay, then,” Bahorel said, looking relieved to have a direction to move in. “Let’s go…”

“Gavroche,” the boy supplied as they disappeared up the stairs. His cheerful chirp was the last sound to break the silence for a long time.

It felt like a long time, at least. It could not possibly have taken as many endless hours as it seemed for Joly to secure the final suture, nod to Enjolras and Feuilly, and strip off his bloodied gloves. Everyone’s attention snapped to the infirmary when Combeferre left the doorway to look at the covered wound. “Well?” he said.

Joly shook out a blanket to drape over Prouvaire’s motionless form. “All we can do now is wait.”

When in doctor mode, Joly was very good at not-answers.

The tension in the room seemed to ease a little, though; the silence broken, everyone unrooted themselves from their spots in the common area and moved toward the infirmary door--Bossuet still keeping a safe distance, and Éponine three steps behind Marius with her eyes fixed on him, as she had been this entire time. She was the only one to notice the other girl slip away from Marius’ side and out of the room.

“Back up,” Joly said firmly as Enjolras and Feuilly squeezed past Marius and Bossuet in the doorway. “I don’t want more than two people in here at once, from now on, and I am currently one of them because if you’ll excuse me I need to scrub down now. Possibly multiple times.”

“The others should come back, unless Courfeyrac’s still working.” Enjolras scanned the room, a quick head count. He glanced back at Combeferre, who was still in the infirmary, adjusting Prouvaire’s blanket. “Feuilly, call them down, please.”

Relaxed by Enjolras’ gift for taking control of a situation, and by the reassuring return of Joly’s paranoia about his own health and cleanliness, Bossuet cracked a grin. He clapped Marius and Feuilly on their respective shoulders. “Aye aye, captain.” Marius put on a tentative smile himself, but it faded into confusion when he looked around. He checked twice, three times, not finding what he was looking for. “What’s the matter, Pontmercy?”

“Where’s…?”

Éponine’s eyes flicked toward the door to the cargo bay, through which Enjolras had disappeared after Euphrasie.

She was standing silent, alone, and with her back to the door when Enjolras emerged into the cargo bay, and didn’t turn around at the sound of his footsteps. Her gaze stayed fixed on her overlarge crate.

“You owe us some answers, Euphrasie.” There was a subtle emphasis on her given name. Things were past the point of polite formal address.

She sighed. “Cosette,” she said to the crate, before finally turning to face Enjolras. Her hands were clasped in front of her. She didn’t avoid his gaze. “You might as well call me Cosette.”

“Your real name?”

She shook her head. “It’s just the one I’ve always known. Euphrasie is--well, it’s the one my mother gave me, before she died...Fauchelevent is borrowed from a friend.”

“What is your real name, then?”

“I don’t know.”

Enjolras continued to study her, and she continued to stand unmoving in the face of his scrutiny. “Care to explain yourself?”

He didn’t have to look around, nor did she have to break eye contact, to know that everyone in the infirmary and common area had now gravitated to the doorway and were listening. Éponine was staring at Cosette instead of Marius, for once, and Marius looked stricken. Cosette gave the slightest nod, and her clasped hands tightened before she released her grip and turned back to the crate, sliding open a panel blinking with lights. “I suppose I have to.”

 ---

“You...knew each other.” Marius’ head was swiveling back and forth between Éponine and Cosette. “You were children together?” He looked more lost than ever.

“I didn’t recognize you,” Cosette said softly, eyes on Éponine. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s your takeaway from this?” Bossuet asked, throwing Pontmercy an incredulous look over his shoulder. He was holding out a med kit for Joly, who was busy fussing over the gash in Bahorel’s side right there on the stairs. Bahorel had refused to sit still in the infirmary while everyone else found out what the hell was going on. “Not, I dunno, the fact that she’s on the run from the law with her dad in a box?”

“How long until he wakes?” Enjolras cut in.

Cosette’s glance skittered to the crate and back. “He wasn’t meant to until after we disembarked, but I’ve reset it to start waking him now. There should be a little over an hour left.”

“And you’re certain,” Combeferre said, “that when he does we won’t have another threat to our safety on our hands?”

Cosette straightened. “He never told me what he was being chased for,” she said, “but he’s a good man. The best man I know--and I grew up in an abbey.”

“That must have been a change,” Éponine snorted. They were the first words she’d spoken since Prouvaire had been shot. Gavroche seemed to find them hilarious.

“Not many places farther from the house of God than the house of Thenardier,” he agreed.

Éponine caught the quizzical glances from all sides. She shrugged. “We were the Thenardiers back then.”

“But then why’s this fed want your dad so bad?” Bahorel interjected, frowning. “Why’s he still after him a decade-plus later?”

Cosette could only shake her head--she hadn’t even known the name of the man chasing them until he’d pulled out his badge and tried to arrest her, much less what he wanted with her father. Aside from the fact that it probably wasn’t good. Enjolras turned to Courfeyrac. “Do you know what he knows? What he reported to his superiors?”

“No.” Courfeyrac ran his hands through already much-abused hair, which was sticking out at odd angles. “I mean, I dug through all cortex activity since he came aboard, I even double-checked the times I was on the bridge in case I missed it somehow, and I only found one outgoing signal, and it was _while_ we were all down here fussing over you two.” He waved a hand at the Thenardier siblings. “So he couldn’t have programmed much into it, there wasn’t time. It might’ve just been an emergency signal he hit when things went south. I changed course, and ran for it, so they won’t find us if they trace the signal’s point of origin, but…”

“We have no way of knowing what other information was in it,” Combeferre finished for him.

Another run of fingers through hair. “Well, we know it couldn’t have been much.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Feuilly reminded him.

Bahorel uncrossed his arms. “Why don’t we go ask the guy who sent it.”

Enjolras gave him a sharp look, then a sharp nod.

Gavroche perked up. Éponine cuffed the back of his head.

“Okay,” Bossuet said loudly, maneuvering himself between Bahorel and the unsettlingly eager young child. He nearly tripped over the doorjamb, but the move conveniently put him between Bahorel and Joly, too, and he took the opportunity to pluck the last of the bandages from his partner’s hands. “I am going to go upstairs and make tea and collapse for a little. I think we could all use it.”

“Oh definitely,” Courfeyrac chimed in, insinuating himself (much more gracefully) between Bossuet and Gavroche. “And we should feed the new arrivals, have you eaten today?”

Bossuet looked relieved at Gavroche’s immediate loss of interest in interrogation as a spectator sport in favor of food, but Joly squirmed in his grasp, eyes flicking back and forth between his upright patient and his unconscious one in the infirmary. “I don’t want to leave Prouvaire unsupervised…”

“I’ll stay.” Combeferre put a hand on his shoulder, already turning back toward the infirmary door. He paused to give Éponine a tired smile. “And you still need a place to sleep, don’t you?”

Gavroche waved him off. “Sleep later, food now!”

He led the way up to the mess, pursued by Courfeyrac and Éponine, Bossuet gently dragging Joly along, Marius hovering in their wake, Feuilly bringing up the rear. He paused at the foot of the steps, cleared his throat. Cosette’s eyes flicked to him from where she stood lingering by the crate. She might have been about to speak, but then she made eye contact with Enjolras. She turned away without a word and let Feuilly usher her up the stairs to join Marius.

 ---

“What are you doing here?”

Grantaire mustered up a wisp of his habitual smirk to throw at the captain. He didn’t move from his slouch against the door to the passenger dorm that was Javert’s impromptu prison. “Miss me?”

Nobody had had time to miss Grantaire when the automatic assumption in the wake of disaster was that he’d be drinking himself into oblivion, and there were more immediate things to worry about than that. Enjolras might have said so if Bahorel hadn’t cut him off. “R, man, have you been back here the whole time?”

The other man’s brows lowered and his mouth went flat. “You know exactly how much I enjoy watching people get cut on.”

“We do?” Bahorel shot back. “Since when?”, but Enjolras still had more to worry about than Grantaire, even considering his unexpected combat ability and apparent aversion to blood.

“Prouvaire’s sewed up and resting and you can go visit him now, or go up to the mess and have someone fill you in. We need to have a word with Javert.”

All of a sudden Grantaire’s slumped stance became tense and wary--the same way he’d stood over Javert when Bahorel had been determined to break the fed’s face. “Have a word with.”

“Ask him some questions,” Bahorel rephrased, looking grimly eager to get started.

Grantaire’s gaze flitted from him to Enjolras, who was unmoved. “About himself, who he’s chasing, and how much he’s endangered our crew.”

Grantaire hunched his shoulders. Betrayal mingled with resignation on his face--the look of a man who should have known. He shuffled out of the way without another word, but didn’t leave. Enjolras brushed past him as Bahorel slid the door open; Grantaire could have as many misgivings and secrets as he liked, so long as they didn’t affect how Enjolras ran his ship.

Now was not the time for curiosity. Not about Grantaire, that is.

Javert’s gaze was steady as Bahorel slid the door closed behind them, shutting out Grantaire and his qualms. He gave Bahorel a cursory once-over but settled on eye contact with Enjolras.

The captain didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I’ve had a more interesting night than I’d have liked, officer, and you are among the chief causes.”

“A life of crime brings punishment on itself,” the fed intoned.

“The only crime I’ve witnessed so far,” Enjolras replied, before Bahorel could do something inadvisable like open his mouth, “is the shooting of an unarmed civilian.”

That did seem to shake Javert a bit, but he brushed it off. “You’ve not only witnessed but abetted more than that, captain.”

Enjolras paced slowly, deliberately, over to the bed and sat down across from the fed. Their eyes were level with one another, and their gazes still locked. “I don’t know what you and your manhunt have gotten me into,” he told Javert, “and I don’t know what false impressions you might have given the Alliance about my crew. Care to fill me in?”

Javert sat silent as a stone.

Enjolras didn’t seem surprised. “I have other people I need to ask similar questions,” he said, standing, “so I’ll leave Bahorel to get answers from you.”

Bahorel gave a toothy grin and drew his largest knife, as Enjolras scooped up the coat and small pile of pocket contents taken from Javert while he’d been unconscious. “The fun part.”

Enjolras (back carefully turned to Javert) rolled his eyes. He shouldered the sliding door aside and stepped out, and was drawn up short for a moment to find Grantaire still there. The other man’s eyes were trained on him, his hands curled into fists at his side.

He shook it off with no more than a raised eyebrow. He had one more thing to ascertain before leaving Bahorel to his work. “Bahorel?” The man in question stuck his head out the door so Enjolras could murmur in his ear. “Don’t harm him.”

Out of Javert’s sight, the man huffed, but nodded. In Javert’s sight (and everyone else’s), he flipped his knife between his fingers.

Grantaire snorted as Bahorel shut the door with a wink. “Drama queen.”

Enjolras couldn’t disagree, but frowned at Grantaire anyway. Saying that within earshot of the prisoner could defeat the point. Grantaire only smirked in response. His hands uncurled--Enjolras hadn’t realized how tightly they’d been clenched until the bright red imprints of Grantaire’s nails on his palms came into view.

He frowned again. Turning abruptly away from the rumble of Bahorel’s voice behind the door he headed for the stairs, and waited until they were out of earshot before speaking, low and controlled. “Did you think I would?”

“No.” Grantaire was smiling--a small but uncharacteristically unsarcastic quirk of his lips. “Glad to be right.”

 ---

“My grandfather,” Marius said, staring into his tea, “made me think my dad abandoned me my whole life, until after dad died, and then I found out he’d just blackmailed dad into letting him raise me and we fought, and I left.” Cosette patted his arm, which made his already-flushed face darken a few more shades. There might have been something besides tea in his cup. “I was on my own for a while before trying to get off-planet. Éponine was my neighbor!”

The girl in question glanced up from her scraped-clean plate, but looked away again at once. Cosette’s hand was still on Marius’ arm. “Boy would’ve gotten himself killed in the first week without someone to watch his back.”

“And that didn’t put you in any danger, at all?” Feuilly asked.

She only snorted. “My dad’s ‘Jondrette.’ You grow up like that, you learn to take care of yourself.”

Her little brother nodded along from where he was stealing sips from Courfeyrac’s definitely-not-tea. Feuilly seemed to have broken out some of his famed engine-brewed poison for the occasion, but the child didn’t so much as cough. “Yeah, s’why I got outta there while the getting was good. Mom sold our brothers before they turned one. We’ve got no idea where they’re at.” He cocked his head at Cosette, blithely ignoring the shocked silence. “I mean, they sold you too, but you weren’t theirs to begin with. And it seems to’ve worked out for you, up to now.”

“Are we sharing our deep dark secrets?” Grantaire burst in on the rather horrified moment with his typical lack of sensitivity. He bounced across the room and flopped down across Joly and Bossuet’s laps. “Hi, I’m Grantaire, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“That was a secret?” Enjolras followed him into the room at a more measured pace, ignoring the respectively wounded and exasperated looks Joly and Bossuet threw his way. “Feuilly, Courfeyrac, this was everything Javert had on him when Bahorel tied him up.” He dumped the fed’s personal effects on the mess table. “Can you find out where his signal came from?”

The mechanic and pilot dove right in, grateful for something to do with their hands. Gavroche took the opportunity to steal Courfeyrac’s mug once and for all. His sister cuffed him again, but didn’t bother trying to confiscate it.

Grantaire ignored everything in favor of Cosette. “Your turn for secrets, missy. I didn’t get to hear yours.”

She sipped her tea, which unlike everyone else’s was just tea. “My father rescued me from Éponine’s parents when I was small. He raised me at the Southdown Abbey. And then he panicked when Javert showed up snooping around on account of some mistake he made ages ago, so I’m smuggling him off-planet in cryosleep.”

Grantaire pointed at her emphatically. “I knew I liked you.”

“Says the misanthrope,” Bossuet said with a roll of his eyes.

Grantaire shrugged expansively, and gulped from Bossuet’s mug. His eyes slid to Enjolras, and his lips curved into that rare unsarcastic smile. “I’m in a charitable mood.”

“Found it!” Feuilly tossed Javert’s coat aside and brandished what at first glance seemed like a too-short capped pen. He flipped the cap off to reveal a button he carefully did not press.

Enjolras squinted at it. “Emergency signal?”

“Looks like.” Courfeyrac took it gingerly, turned it over in his hands a few times. “I’m gonna take it to the bridge, see if I can get anything…” He looked up at his captain, who nodded. He looked at Feuilly, who pushed back his chair and stood up.  

Cosette broke the frazzled silence Courfeyrac and Feuilly left in their wake. “Did he...did Javert say anything? About why…?”

She looked as composed as ever, but her fingertips were going white against the surface of her tea mug.

“Not yet,” Enjolras said shortly. “I’ll have to ask your father when he wakes.”

She raised her eyes from her tea. “I’m sorry,” she said, “truly.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for!” Marius burst out. His arm made a jerky, aborted motion toward Cosette’s shoulder. Any further attempts at comfort were derailed by his sudden awareness of the glares of everyone in the room who’d known Jean Prouvaire for more than twenty-four hours.

“Lucky ’Ferre’s not here,” Grantaire muttered, before dropping his head back into Bossuet’s lap.

“But--really,” Marius faltered under Enjolras’ gaze, “nothing is Cosette’s _fault_ \--”

“But nothing would’ve happened if it weren’t for me,” she cut in tiredly.

“Still not your fault all the grownups in your life’ve been shitty,” Gavroche chipped in.

Cosette blinked, indignant. “Father’s not...shitty!”

Éponine snorted. “Not trusting you with any of his problems and then expecting you to save him from his shady past? Might be better’n you used to have it, but...” She trailed off with a shrug, and took a drink from her mug.

“Point,” said Grantaire, from below table level.

Joly nudged him. “Charitable mood?”

“He didn’t _expect_ me to solve anything!” Cosette insisted. “I wasn’t going to _let_ him run alone!”

A sudden high-pitched beeping cut through the conversation. Everyone looked around, immediately silent, as more machine-produced warnings layered themselves on top of the first shrill alarm. Courfeyrac’s cursing was audible all the way down the forward corridor. Enjolras sprang to his feet and was on the bridge almost before anyone registered him leaving the mess.

Grantaire was the first to scramble to his feet and follow, but Gavroche was the first to reach the bridge in the ensuing general stampede.

“You said they wouldn’t find us.”

“They haven’t.” Courfeyrac was frantically swiveling between readouts on the console, which was lit up and flashing on every side. “Not Alliance, I mean. I don’t know who this is but they’re not big enough for Alliance, and they’re an outdated Trans-U model, and they’re...leaking radiation like crazy, what’re they _doing_?”

Feuilly leaned forward in the copilot’s chair and Enjolras leaned over Courfeyrac’s shoulder, his face gone pale and stony. “Get me a visual.”

“I’m trying...Christ, are they flying without core containment? What are they, suicidal?”

Feuilly went as still as Enjolras, hands clenched on the arms of his chair. Gavroche poked his head out from under the console, where he’d somehow insinuated himself without anyone noticing. “Who is it?” he demanded.

The light of the fuzzy image Courfeyrac brought up on the console flickered across his and Enjolras’ faces. “Reavers.”

All the air seemed to go out of the room for a moment as nearly every head swiveled toward the window, eyes straining for something nobody wanted to see.

Enjolras reached for the comm link to the med bay. “Ferre, we’ve got Reavers. We’re gonna sit tight and wait for them to pass.”

The briefest of staticky silences. “Roger that.”

“Bahorel?”

“With us.”

“We’re going down there too,” Joly muttered. He had his back to the window and looked like Bossuet’s arm around him was the only thing keeping him upright until he made the decision to head for the med bay, where he knew where everything was, and how to use it, and what to do with it if they were boarded. Bossuet kept his arm in place as they walked, anyway.

Marius looked uneasily around at the remaining crew and their deathly stillness. “Reavers? Those are...real?”

“What are they?” Cosette asked, hushed.

Grantaire shrugged, gripping tightly at his own arms as though holding himself together. “Men.”

“Those are not men.” Enjolras’ eyes were fixed on the rapidly approaching speck that was the Reaver ship. “They’ve forgotten how to be men.”

Marius glanced at Cosette. “What--what do they do?”

“Torture. Rape. Murder. Move on to the next people who cross their path.” Feuilly kept his voice down, as though it could make any difference to whether they were noticed or not. “No one’s really sure what happened to them, or why they...but they’re insatiable.”

“Like I said.” Grantaire hunched in on himself even more.

Enjolras turned to glare at him.

Courfeyrac let out a strangled chuckle as the Reaver ship loomed in the cockpit window. “R? Not the time.”

The ship was a patchy red, crackling with the unshielded energy of its engine core, and looked like it could eat _Corinthe_ alive. The closer it got, the slower it seemed to move, giving everyone on the bridge a close look at its garish exterior. The bodies decorating its nose came into view, and Cosette and Marius silently joined hands.

Gavroche shifted in his spot half-under the console. “I hope they’re not hungry.” Marius flinched. Courfeyrac let out another strangled huff of laughter, and ruffled the kid’s hair.

The underbelly of the ship passed overhead, painfully slowly. It had to be at least twice as big as the Firefly. The reddish cast it reflected onto everything and everyone on the bridge felt insidious, invasive; they stood like statues under it, still blinking it out of their eyes when the ship had passed. Eventually, Courfeyrac moved gingerly to check its course.

“They’re not coming after us.’

Everyone seemed deflate at his words, the silent tension rushing out of the space. Grantaire let his arms fall to his sides, and Marius stopped cutting off the circulation in Cosette’s hand. Éponine, out of sight in the back, let herself lean against the wall. Feuilly, in the front, sat back in his chair with a long sigh. Enjolras squeezed his pilot’s shoulder, and reached for the comm again. “They’re holding course.”

Joly’s high-pitched and Bahorel’s rumbling exclamations of relief were audible over the comm. Enjolras cut the connection with what was nearly a smile.

Grantaire had the grace to wait until the new arrivals were gone, Éponine trailing in Marius and Cosette’s wake with her brother scampering ahead, before breaking the mood. “They come farther out every year.”

It wasn’t a question, and it got no reply.

 ---

Joly insisted that everyone stay out of the cargo bay when Cosette’s father woke up. He was adamant that nobody crowd the patient, allowing only himself and Cosette near. The rest of the crew obeyed, if reluctantly; Enjolras stood in the doorway to the passenger commons, Marius hovering and Bahorel looming behind him, Bossuet and Courfeyrac and Grantaire sprawled on one of the couches within waiting to get a glimpse, and Gavroche watched from between railings overhead. The doctor eyed them all with exasperation as the second-to-last light on the crate’s console changed to green.

“Everyone out,” he repeated loudly. “Except Enjolras.” The concession was superfluous; the captain didn’t move. Bossuet did succeed in dragging his couchmates away, though, and Marius and Bahorel retreated from the doorway. It would have to do.

When the last light changed, Cosette carefully lifted the lid and slid it back. There was a cough from inside the crate. She let the lid fall with a thud. “Father?”

The person inside could be heard shifting, unfolding himself. “Cosette.” His voice was deep and weathered. “Cosette, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Father.” She unfolded the blanket Joly handed her, holding it out for her father as he sat up. She draped the blanket and her arms around him at the same time.

Even with just his head and shoulders visible above the edge of the crate, it was clear the blanket would be small for him. The head was grey-haired and the face lined, and the shoulders were nearly as broad as the crate. They tensed visibly at the sight of Joly. “Good morning! I’m Dr. Joly. How are you feeling, mister…?”

The man’s eyes darted to Cosette, who offered a reassuring smile. “The real one. They know mine.”

This didn’t seem to reassure the man at all. He made what looked like an attempt to edge in front of his daughter, hindered by the fact that he was still inside a crate. “Valjean.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Valjean,” Joly replied, swooping in to inspect the crate’s console. He ignored Valjean’s flinch at his approach. “Now, according to this your vitals are steady--or they were, just before we opened the crate--but if you don’t mind I’d like to check you over in the infirmary, it never hurts to be safe, with cryosleep. Or with anything else, that’s my personal philosophy. Would you like help getting out?” He held out an extra blanket, just in case.

Valjean blinked slowly against the stream of chatter. “I think first I would like some clothes.”

It took a bit of maneuvering, but Valjean managed to put on the clothing Cosette produced from her luggage while inside the crate, and then heave himself out of it unassisted. He wavered a bit on his feet, though, so Cosette ducked under his arm to help him to the infirmary. She gave him a _look_ when he tried to protest. It took a bit more maneuvering to get the two of them, with Joly leading the way, past Enjolras in the doorway; the captain seemed disinclined to move. “Captain Enjolras,” Joly said by way of introduction, “whose questions can _wait_.” Surprise flickered across Valjean’s face--Enjolras looked younger than ever next to him.

“All right,” Joly continued, bustling into the infirmary. “First come sit in here, we've cleared off some bench space for you.” He eyed Valjean, whose height was proportionate to his hulking shoulder-width. “Maybe not enough...but I'm afraid the chair's occupied.”

Prouvaire waved with the hand that was not patting Combeferre on the arm. “Hello! You must be Cosette’s father?”

“Yes, I…” Entering a room with this many unknown people had Valjean looking like a spooked horse. A spooked draft horse, perhaps. The obvious signs of recent injury couldn’t have helped. “What’s happened?” he murmured to his daughter.

Prouvaire answered. “I was shot!”

Valjean stared, his expression somewhere between sympathy and vaguely horrified confusion at the situation he’d woken into.

“He woke up on his own,” Joly assured from the other side of the infirmary, where he was digging through an open drawer, “and has been awake for some time now, so he should be fine. But _not working_ until _I_ say so.”

“Heard you the first time.” Prouvaire sighed. “That Javert’s going to cost me _months_ of income…”

“We can waive your rent for as long as you need,” Enjolras spoke up from the doorway.

“You’ll do no such thing. I have savings.” Combeferre opened his mouth, but didn’t get any words out before being cut off. “No. Such. Thing.”

Valjean had gone still as a very alert statue. “Javert--he shot--he's here?”

Cosette gripped his arm harder. “I'm sorry, father, I didn't know who he was--”

He covered her hand with his own, and bowed his head. He seemed unable to look her in the eye. “My fault.”

Enjolras took a step into the infirmary. (Bahorel pressed forward to fill the doorway, Marius craning his neck behind him.) “Would you care to tell us why Javert's on our ship?”

Joly, having popped back over to the counter on which Valjean sat, yanked the man’s shirt up and pressed a stethoscope to his chest. “Would you mind waiting?” he tossed over his shoulder.

“Yeah, _he_ wasn't talking,” Bahorel added, ignoring Joly. “And _someone_ told me not to hit him…”

“Your self-control is astounding,” Combeferre said dryly.

“Would you mind _getting out of my infirmary_?” Joly switched the stethoscope to Valjean’s back. “I said two visitors at a time!”

“He can talk while you work.” Enjolras ignored Joly’s continued mutterings about how he was supposed to get a decent blood pressure reading under these circumstances, for crying out loud. He kept his eyes on Valjean. “Well?”

The older man hesitated, with a glance at Cosette. A look around at all the other intensely expectant faces made him sigh, then speak. “He's...rather more devoted to this job than sensible about it. As I understand it, I was his first failure, so he’s always been easily distracted by chances to catch me.”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. “What did he fail to get you for?”

Another hesitation, but when he spoke his voice was steady. “Breaking parole.”

“You were in prison?” Cosette’s eyes were wide.

“A long time ago,” he said quickly, taking her hand in both of his. “This wasn’t how I wanted to--it was for theft. Of food.”

Cosette only returned the gesture, squeezing both her father’s hands. Bahorel blinked. “Hasn't a fed got better things to do?

Valjean’s smile was tired and humorless. “I'm sure he does. One of them is probably what brought him to Persephone, before he got...distracted.”

Another blink. “...More devoted than sensible is right.”

“But what,” Combeferre cut in, “do we _do_ with him?”

Valjean seemed to gather himself in the ensuing pause. “Where is he? May I speak to him?”

“No,” Enjolras and Joly both said at once.

“You need to lie down,” Joly went on, tapping first Valjean’s left, then his right knee with a rubber mallet. Seeming satisfied, he pushed at the bigger man’s shoulder until he was horizontal on the too-short bench. “...Maybe curl up a little. There. Now, try to get some natural sleep. There can be more conversation,” he raised his voice pointedly, “when you wake up.”

Before anyone could respond, Courfeyrac’s voice crackled over the comm. “Hey Cap, our buyer's on the line.”

Enjolras finally broke his unwavering focus on Valjean. He glanced from Combeferre to Bahorel, and the former stood (Prouvaire gave his arm a final pat) to chivvy the latter out of the infirmary and toward the bridge. “We will talk more later,” Enjolras said to Valjean, a promise, “but you're safe on this ship so long as you don't put anyone on it in more danger.” He turned on his heel and left without waiting for a response.

Joly huffed in exasperation as he peeled his gloves off. “Oh finally, what makes them think an infirmary where you can't _breathe_ for crowding is any use to anybody.” He scrubbed his hands with soap, and spoke over his shoulder to Prouvaire. “Will you be all right if I--”

Prouvaire waved him away. “Go collapse somewhere, dear.”

Cosette pulled up a stool by the counter. She pulled a blanket over her father before sitting down. “I’ll stay.”

Joly flashed her a smile before hurrying out the door. Marius, slipping into the room in Joly’s place, said loyally, “Me too.” Cosette gave him a tired smile of her own.

At the sound of the new voice Valjean opened the eyes he had just closed a second ago. His gaze landed right on the unfamiliar young man hovering at his daughter’s elbow. “...Who are you?”

“Um,” Marius said.

\---

Courfeyrac came waltzing into the infirmary half an hour later, pausing at the door with a bow to let Cosette out. He proceeded to almost run right into Marius trailing after her. “Oops, sorry Pontmercy, have you seen Joly? I wanted to tell him and Boss we're gonna be seeing their ladyfriend in a few hours.”

“Hmm? Marius blinked at him, smiling vaguely. “No…”

He drifted out of the room.

Courfeyrac watched him go, then looked back to Prouvaire, who was just dropping the pretense of being asleep. He allowed himself a chuckle. Courfeyrac shook his head. “Kid’s weird.”

“No,” Prouvaire corrected, checking that Cosette’s father was asleep before continuing, “he's in love.”

Courfeyrac stared at him. “...He met her _yesterday_.”

\---

Éponine heard Prouvaire’s answering laugh, and the pained huff that followed, from where she crouched outside the infirmary window. She slipped away when the pilot’s footsteps and noises of concern covered any sound she might make--probably unnecessary, since he’d completely missed her on his way in. He’d sounded incredulous about Marius’ precipitous fall into adoring love. But he hadn’t known the boy long. It was a very Marius thing to do.

Her hands tightened into fists in her pockets.

She wandered the ship.

The restrictions on passenger wandering seemed to have been done away with. There was little point to them now, she supposed; everyone aboard was neck-deep in the same shit. But she avoided being seen anyway. It was a skill and a habit one picked up in her family and their line of work, and she’d probably never lose it, even though she hadn’t really thought of them as family in a while.

She was just making her way up the stairs from the cargo bay, away from the infirmary and Valjean and jovial jokes about Marius and Cosette, when the rustle of a bead curtain stopped her in her tracks. Almost automatically she melted into the shadows against the nearest wall. From her vantage point partway up the stairs, she saw through the grating of the floor the first mate emerging from the starboard shuttle. He was the one who hadn’t been able to get through the Companion’s surgery. His hands had been shaking too badly.

Combeferre did not see Éponine. She saw him stop, lean against the wall, rub at his face with one hand. She didn’t make her presence known. This wasn’t the kind of thing anyone else was meant to see.

Eventually he disappeared up the forward stairs, so--after a peek into the shuttle, which was so plush and serene as to seem a separate universe from the rest of the ship--she took the aft ones. She drifted in the direction of the mess, and the sound of voices; she found her little brother, and the hulking giant called Bahorel. He’d gotten Gavroche to sit still, which was a minor miracle. Tucked behind the doorframe, Éponine went unnoticed as she watched him demonstrate the correct way to grip a variety of knives to be sure of not cutting oneself. Gavroche paid close attention. He was alert and as close to respectful as she’d ever seen him. Wasn’t this ship just full of surprises.

She slipped away back down the corridor. Gav hadn’t needed her or anyone else looking after him in years. His voice--“Ok, my turn!”--followed her, along with Bahorel’s booming laughter.

The other end of the aft corridor was the engine room. For a moment she thought it was empty. But no--there was the mechanic; he had a hammock strung up in the narrow space, he was lying back in it and rocking it back and forth with one toe on the floor. He might have been outdoors in the shade of a tree on a mild summer day, to look at him, rather than in the stuffy heat of a cramped room filled with the hum of machinery. Éponine hovered at the door, outside of his peripheral vision. His attention was elsewhere, anyway. He stayed focused on whatever he was folding in long, neat creases between nimble, callused fingers. His movements had the worn, practiced air of soothing habit, much as the engine room itself seemed molded comfortably around him. Useful, after a day like today.

She didn’t interrupt him.

She tried going back down the stairs, back past Prouvaire’s shuttle, and up into the forward corridor; but that just led to the bridge, where she could see the silhouettes of Marius and Cosette listing toward each other, centimeter by centimeter, coming to rest against one another’s shoulders.

Éponine slunk down the stairs again before Courfeyrac could return to his post and startle the lovebirds into noticing the world outside each other.

She wandered, but it wasn’t a very big ship.

The passenger bunks all, for the moment, had their sliding doors tightly closed.

“He’s not serious, is he?” came a muffled voice from inside one of them--the doctor’s.

“Bahorel takes fashion very seriously,” his partner replied. “And he bought them for you. Pretty insistently, too.”

“I mean, about Musichetta being bound to like them,” the doctor fretted.

A rustling noise. “Well, _I_ think you look great in leather.”

Éponine moved on.

She passed through the common area by the infirmary, again--full circle--where the Companion lay asleep and Valjean sat awake.

“I shouldn’t have brought her into this in the first place,” he murmured. Éponine bent low enough to be invisible from the infirmary windows and began to pick her way across the room. “I need to get her out of it. I need to protect her better than this.”

“Your daughter, as I understand it, made her own choices.” Éponine suppressed a start. She hadn’t realized the captain was in the infirmary until he spoke. “And they were choices deserving of respect.”

She reached the door without being seen or heard, and slipped through.

A little snooping revealed the secrets of the cargo bay. There was the hatch in the floor, for hauling things in and out, hovering or on the move. There were the hooks and hoops for hauling and holding. There were the smuggling compartments--some of them, at least. An old, creaky, cranny-full ship like this was bound to be stuffed with them. Ferreting them all out might pass the time, but Éponine found she didn’t have the energy; instead she curled up in the largest one, and let herself not think about anything that had happened today. That and the familiarity of being alone in the dark were an odd kind of comfort.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, if there's anyone there! Good to see you! I am still alive! I've just been working full-time since March, so finding time and energy to finish fic has been hard, and reading a lot of books with a critical eye and befriending some professional writers and editors, so even looking at my own scribbles without cringing has also been hard xD I'm still very fond of this story, though, and I hope to finish it in a more timely fashion than I got around to part 2!
> 
> NOTES:
> 
> \- Given his capacity to be terrible, Enjolras could have gone black hole rather than neutron star. But I would find that difficult to incorporate into a group setting without the entire group feeling majorly creepy / E still caring about any of them, so I maintain that the power of friendship pulled him back from that brink.
> 
> \- Also, I put far too much thought into that metaphor. I am sad that it fudges the scientific details so much, but my friends will attest that in its rough stages it included the impressive amount of hydrogen Enjolras had going on when he was younger, and that...that just had to go.
> 
> \- (I’d already made a horse metaphor, I had to match it with some kind of space metaphor, this is Firefly.)
> 
> \- I can’t be the only person who’s frustrated by canonical Valjean’s refusal to trust Cosette with her own emotional welfare, even though she is clearly far more level-headed and healthy at the moment than either him or Marius, can I? I felt the need to have someone call him out on that, even if my Cosette is much more free to make her own choices. :)
> 
> \- I'd forgotten in months of not looking at this how much I love all the relationships in this story. Found families who love each other without shame are my jam. <3


End file.
